


The Mourning After

by Brooklyn Bentleigh (randym)



Category: The X-Files
Genre: M/M, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-18
Updated: 2017-12-18
Packaged: 2019-02-16 11:29:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13053108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/randym/pseuds/Brooklyn%20Bentleigh
Summary: What if Clyde Bruckman is right, and Mulder dies of autoerotic asphyxiation?Originally posted June 1997.





	The Mourning After

**Author's Note:**

> This is _not_ a sequel to "Souvenir." As far as I'm concerned, that story is perfect and complete as it is, a flawless dark diamond. This is...a weird AU inspired by "Souvenir," with no real attempt to match Cody's tone and characterization...

Krycek didn't find out until after the burial. He was in his cheap room at the YMCA in Batavia, New York, reading a paper several days old when he saw it. The unusual name caught his eye, and he read the rest of the obituary in disbelief. 

"Fox William Mulder, FBI agent...." No, oh no, it couldn't be. But it was. Thirty-six years old, predeceased by sister Samantha and father William, mother survives at home...it was Mulder. No hint of what had happened, only that he passed away unexpectedly at home. That almost always meant suicide with a man Mulder's age, but it seemed unlikely in this case. Had the Consortium finally opted for the permanent solution to the Mulder problem? Krycek was filled with cold fury at the thought. Bad enough that they had tried to kill him, but Mulder was supposed to be off-limits. "What did they do to you?" Krycek whispered. "Mulder. Oh, Mulder, Mulder..."

As if in answer, Krycek felt a touch at his groin. It was so real and startling that he sprang to his feet, knocking his chair down and falling backwards over it. Bruised and smarting, he lay on the floor and looked around the room. He could see nothing...but the feel of a hand on his cock was quite distinct and unmistakable. It was stroking him in just the way he liked best, invisibly, as if his jeans and underwear weren't even there. Krycek panted and groaned softly, trying to restrain his fear...and his arousal.

Someone knocked at the door. "You all right in there?"

Krycek swallowed hard. "Uh, yeah," he called. "Just clumsy. Kicked the chair over." His voice sounded a little breathless, but the reply seemed to satisfy his neighbor. Krycek listened to the footsteps retreat down the hall, then rolled over on his stomach, pressing his groin to the floor...but that was no more a barrier to the lewd touch than his clothes were. "No," he moaned, but the caresses were relentless, and he knew he was going to come soon if they continued. They did, and Krycek found himself spasming in reluctant ecstasy, writhing on the floor as warm semen dampened his jeans. 

Krycek punched the blameless linoleum as soon as he recovered sufficiently. "Damn it! Who are you? What's going on here?"

Cold breath tickled against his ear. "You don't know? You called my name, Krycek. You made me come. So...I made you come."

Krycek scrambled to his feet, looking wildly around the room. He saw nothing, but knew that voice. Mulder. It was Mulder. "Are you really dead? What did they do to you?" he asked.

"They didn't do anything to me." The voice came from right in front of Krycek. He stared, and the air seemed to thicken. "You're the one who killed me, Alex." And suddenly Mulder was standing in front of him, transparent and ghostly, but all too recognizable. He was naked, except for a brown leather belt tight around his neck. He looked like a corpse whose cause of death was suffocation. Face dark, eyes popping, tongue protruding, huge and black and swollen...and, Krycek couldn't help noticing, the penis was also huge and swollen. He knew immediately what had to have happened. He shut eyes against the ghastly sight, against the sting of tears. "Oh, Mulder, you fool..."

When he opened his eyes again, the room was empty. If it weren't for the rapidly cooling stickiness in his pants and the newspaper on the desk with Mulder's obituary, he might think it was all a bad dream. Perhaps it was...some strange grief reaction to finding out about Mulder's death. Krycek accepted the reality of UFOs and aliens and government conspiracies, but ghosts? He'd always thought Mulder was a little flaky about that sort of X-file...

# # # # #

But over the next few days, Krycek became a believer. He was being haunted by the ghost of his former partner. And the haunting took a particularly embarrassing and inconvenient form. At any hour of the day or night, in public or in private, he might feel the erotic touch of invisible hands, irresistibly urging him to orgasm. Well-meaning strangers asked him if he was feeling all right, noting his flushed face and rapid breathing. Eventually, Krycek took to carrying props everywhere he went -- a newspaper, a jacket -- anything to hold in front of his crotch to disguise his arousal. His laundry bill was getting out of hand.

He didn't see Mulder again, but sometimes Mulder spoke to him. No one else ever seemed to hear him. One night he was woken from a sound sleep by the feel a warm, heavy body lying over his, thrusting and panting but completely invisible. Mulder was, Krycek noticed, becoming more...solid. He could feel the dampness of his sweat, smell his familiar scent... Krycek thrust involuntarily against Mulder's unseen belly, and he could swear in the moment of completion he felt Mulder's ejaculation wetting his stomach, as well as his own. 

"Mulder," he got the courage to ask. "Why are you haunting me? What do you want?"

"You tell me," Mulder's voice answered. It sounded a bit ragged, the way Mulder always sounded afterwards. "You always knew what I wanted better than I did."

"Revenge?" Krycek asked quietly.

"Maybe. Yes, I think so." Then Mulder was gone, leaving Krycek shivering alone on the bed.

# # # # #

Krycek used his laptop to research ghosts. It was the last remnant he had of his FBI career. He'd had to get rid of the gun, and the badge, but he still had the laptop he'd been issued upon graduation from Quantico. Not that it did him any good. There was plenty of information, but much of it was contradictory and none of it seemed to apply to his situation. He even did some psychology research, wondering if perhaps he'd gone crazy. But he quickly came to the conclusion that if he was imagining it, he was deeply psychotic. In which case -- with the Consortium after him and no way to get treatment -- he was dead man. Ever pragmatic, Krycek abandoned that line of inquiry as hopelessly unproductive.

Finally he decided to go to Massachusetts, where Mulder was buried, and pay his respects. Perhaps if he were properly repentant, Mulder's restless spirit would find peace. It was the only thing he could think of to do. And Mulder was encouragingly quiet on the long bus trip east. 

Krycek didn't dare go to the cemetery during the day. Someone might see him, and wonder. The grave might even watched. He waited until nightfall, then changed into sweats, so he might be taken for a late jogger taking advantage of the flat, even paths that crisscrossed the cemetery. 

He knew where Mulder was buried. He'd visited Bill Mulder's grave once before, and his son would no doubt be nearby. Yes, the two graves were side by side. Krycek knelt by the newer one, gently fingering the inscription in the marble. How had it all gone so horribly wrong? He should never have agreed to work for the smoking man. And having done so, he should have refused the far too tempting Mulder assignment. At the very least, he should have had the discipline and professionalism to refrain from sleeping with Mulder, no matter his feelings...or because of them. Small mistakes, each one, but together they added up to an unendurable tragedy.

"God, I'm sorry, Mulder. I never thought...I only wanted..." He sighed, then reached into his jacket and took out a single long-stemmed red rose, and laid it on the grave. 

"Gee, thanks, Alex. I always preferred pink carnations, but it's the thought that counts."

Krycek shut his eyes as he heard Mulder's mocking words. "If I get you pink carnations, will you go away?"

"No, I don't think so." 

Krycek was pulled to his feet. He was startled. Mulder didn't usually manhandle him this way. Invisible lips kissed him bruisingly, invisible hands stroked all his most sensitive places. "Not here, Mulder!" Krycek protested.

"Why not? I know the tenant, he won't mind," Mulder answered, and pushed him over so he was leaning on the headstone. He tried to resist, but Mulder easily held him down. Hands groped at Krycek's waist, then yanked his sweatpants and underwear down. Krycek shivered, feeling the chilly night air on his butt, and was suddenly very afraid. This was the first time Mulder had bothered to strip him. And it had to be in public. It would be ironic if, after all these months of hiding and running, he were arrested in this podunk town for indecent exposure... He pressed his face to the hard, cold marble as Mulder's fingers slid between his cheeks, and inside him. He was terrified, but he was also extremely aroused. The sheer illicitness of doing it in this place, the possibility that he might be caught literally with his pants down, the uncertainty about the form Mulder's revenge might take... He felt Mulder's cock slide in, and gasped. It was something he had often fantasized about, but Mulder had never wanted to do it this way...when he was alive. Mulder thrust steadily, his warm weight draped heavily along Krycek's back, hands sliding around to stroke chest and stomach and thighs. Finally one hand found his quivering erection, and Krycek whimpered. He couldn't remember ever being so excited. He was going to come, and come hard. It was inevitable. Yet he resisted, fearing it would be the last orgasm of his life. A hand stroked up his chest to press against his jaw and throat, confirming Krycek's worst fears. He shook violently as he realized what Mulder meant to do. They would find him here tomorrow morning, half-naked, strangled, dead on Mulder's grave. He moaned. Well, so be it, then, because he couldn't hold out any more. The terror and pleasure mounted unbearably, then exploded in a wrenching climax. 

The marble was cool against his face, Mulder' cock was pulsing in his ass, and he was, so far as he could tell, still alive and breathing. Rather raggedly, but definitely breathing. He opened his eyes as he felt Mulder withdraw. The night was quiet and peaceful. They were still alone. Krycek sighed, pulled up his pants, and sank to the ground. He noticed to his horror that his come was splashed over Mulder's headstone. He reached out to wipe it off with his sleeve, but an unseen hand stopped him. "No, leave it," Mulder said. "I like it."

"You're even more perverted dead than you were alive." 

Mulder chuckled. The clear evening air seemed to thicken, and Krycek shut his eyes quickly. He hadn't seen Mulder since that first night, and didn't want to. 

"What's the matter, Alex? Alex? What's wrong?" 

Krycek opened his eyes reluctantly. Mulder was sitting crosslegged in front of him. A bit pale and faded, but clearly visible...and nothing like he'd looked the last time. He was dressed as Krycek had most often seen him: dress shirt, sleeves rolled up, suit pants but no jacket, tie loosened around his smooth, flawless throat. He was smiling his lopsided smile at Krycek, looking perfectly happy and healthy. 

"You...you didn't kill me."

"Why would I want to do that?" Mulder said, the picture of puzzled innocence.

Krycek had had enough. He sprang to his feet and started to run. It was stupid, there was no way he could keep up the pace, and he couldn't outrun Mulder even before he was dead, but he ran anyway: down the path, out the gates of the cemetery, down the deserted sidewalks. 

He reached his room in the old, cheap motel he'd still never be able to afford during the summer tourist season and let himself in, gasping from exertion. He shut the door and locked it, then leaned against it, panting.

"You were running as if a ghost were after you," Mulder said.

Krycek looked wildly around the room. Mulder was leaning insouciantly in the doorway to the bathroom. 

"Damn you, Mulder! Just do it already!" Krycek shouted, at the end of his endurance.

"We just did it," Mulder said with a wicked smile.

"Not that!" 

"What?" Mulder asked. He seemed genuinely baffled. 

"You know what!" He swung at Mulder, but his fist passed right through his former partner, hitting only empty air. Then Mulder's hand caught his wrist in a warm, very solid, unbreakable grip. Krycek stared at the hand, wondering dully at the paradox. "Kill me, Mulder. Please. Quit torturing me and just kill me!" 

Mulder's mouth dropped open. "Torturing you?? I never...I mean, sometimes I was a little rough, but that's the way we've always..." He looked at Krycek uncertainly, then his eyes widened in understanding. "You...you think I came back to kill you."

"I'm not stupid, Mulder," Krycek said. "You appear with that belt around your neck, looking like...and saying I killed you -- "

Mulder blinked in surprise. "Oh...sorry about that first night," he said. "I had just died, Alex. It's natural for the newly dead to be a bit obsessed with the circumstances of their deaths. I wasn't trying to upset you."

"You accused me of killing you!"

"Okay, I was a little pissy. I got over it almost immediately. I don't blame anyone but myself for what happened, Krycek. Really."

"Then why did you keep...accosting me in public that way? I thought you were trying to get me arrested!"

"Dying is...confusing. I...I just didn't remember about things like public lewdness and clothes." He added hopefully, "I remembered to take your pants off tonight, didn't I?" 

"Mulder, we were still in public. Practically on...on your father's grave. You pressed your hand to my throat, and I thought you meant me to die like you did, in revenge for...."

"No," Mulder protested. "I was only trying to get you to turn your head so I could kiss you, that's all." He let go of Krycek's wrist and stepped back slightly. "I understand now. You didn't have a choice. And...my father's dead. He's no longer my concern. If he wants revenge, he can get it himself. But he doesn't." He shrugged. "You were so unhappy there in the cemetery. I only wanted to distract you, show you I didn't hold a grudge. And...I just liked the idea of doing it on my own grave. Seemed kind of kinky."

Krycek shut his eyes, exasperated. "Mulder...I asked you why you came back, and you said it was for revenge."

"But not against you." 

Krycek spoke very slowly. "Then...why are you haunting me? I can't be that good a lay!"

"Actually, you are."

Krycek opened his eyes to glare at Mulder. 

"Seriously, Alex," Mulder explained. "It took me awhile to figure this out... See, only a few of those who die come back. They need two things in order to return: some unfinished business in the world of the living, and...an anchor."

"Anchor?"

"Yes. A link with the living world. Something physical, and personally meaningful, that serves as a sort of tether. It could be a place -- the traditional haunted house -- or a thing, such as a car, or a piece of jewelry."

"And for you?"

"In my case, it's...a person."

"Me?" 

Mulder nodded. 

"Why me? Why not Scully? Or your mother? Of all people, why me?"

Mulder shrugged. "I...I was thinking of you when I died, so..."

Krycek found himself blushing. He used to wonder if Mulder ever thought of him after he left. It appeared he had his answer. "And what about the unfinished business?" he asked, quickly changing the subject.

Mulder just looked at him.

"Never mind," Krycek sighed. "It's Samantha, and the whole alien conspiracy thing, isn't it?"

Mulder nodded again. "I can't leave until I find out what happened to her."

"But...don't you know, now that you're....?"

"The word is 'dead,' Alex," Mulder said. "And no, I don't know. I don't have any special knowledge...except about you. Because you're the anchor. So I know you didn't have any real choice about killing my father...but I don't know where Sam is, or what happened to her."

Krycek leaned back against the wall, incredulous. "I thought you came back to kill me."

"I'm sorry." Mulder pressed against him, brushing his lips against Krycek's.

He sighed. "I'm going to miss you, Mulder."

"Miss me?"

"You're going to look for Samantha, aren't you?"

"I hope so." 

"What do you mean?"

Mulder looked uncomfortable. "I'm dead. I can't go very far from my anchor....from you. So I can't look for Sam... _we_ have to."

"What?!" 

Mulder pressed urgent kisses to Krycek's mouth, and eyelids, and forehead. "Please, Alex? You're not doing anything but hiding from the Consortium anyway."

"For good reason! They'll kill me if they find me!"

"But they won't find you. You'll have me to watch your back. And I never sleep." Mulder kissed Krycek again.

Mulder was right, Krycek wasn't doing anything with his life these days. In fact, having Mulder kill him would have been almost a relief. Why not go with Mulder in search of Samantha? He sighed, leaning into the kiss. This was something he'd always wanted, a secret fantasy: to be with Mulder, to have Mulder need him. He'd never imagined it would happen, much less this way....

"All right, Mulder," he said, pulling away slightly. "Let's go look for your truth."

"Tomorrow," Mulder said. He pulled Krycek toward the bed, grinning with delight. Krycek was bemused to see Mulder's clothes conveniently vanishing. 


End file.
